


A Jagged Sickle

by Heronfem



Series: The Fire and the Fury [3]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Dark, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kronos centric, Multi, Murder of rapist, Psychological Torture, Severe Mental Illness, Torture, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: Upon his arrival at the Vanishing Point, Mick Rory becomes Kronos after being trained by Rolan Ouranos. Piece by piece, he learns the worst parts of the torturer who made him, and in time exacts his revenge.
Prequel to Titan.





	

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE heed the tagged warnings. This is not a happy story. Kronos is only a somewhat good man, Rolan is a very bad man, and the Time Masters don't care what happens so long as the time line is safe. This is something of a retelling of the Chronus myth, and the actual sequel to Titan will have a happy ending but this is very much NOT a story with a real happy ending, aside from the death of a rapist.

The hatred is familiar. 

The hatred sits hot in his bones, familiar and foaming, but he doesn't move while Rolan runs proprietary fingers over his jaw. Rolan strolls around him, smug smile firmly in place as Druce watches with bored disinterest.

“He's exceptional, is he not?” Rolan purrs.

Exceptional. That was how they had described him when he was little, before the fire welled up all beautiful inside of him, and now here he is being made into a toy. The Pilgrim stands in one corner, watching with greedy intent. He hopes, faintly, that he's not going to be her pet. More likely he'll be Druce's or Rolan's, neither of which is great, but that doesn't matter. He keeps his eyes dead ahead, for once grateful for his armor as he can't feel Rolan's hand resting over his heart.

He can feel his breath on his skin, however.

“Perhaps we should fix the burns,” Druce says mildly, and Rolan makes a noise of affront.

“Certainly not. War scars show how well we've tamed a beast.”

Beast. Everyone thinks of him like this. Everyone just thinks he's a mindless animal, ready for nothing but the kill and the chase, and some days that's true. He never was the best at anything but destruction, but any old dog learns new tricks. All that hatred and pent up desire has honed him once again, made him quick and sharper than before. Years, decades of learning, and he's excellent at his work. He doesn't fight when Rolan grabs his jaw, simply goes as he's pulled, and doesn't let the urge to bite him take over.

“Such a masterpiece,” Rolan breathes, eyes bright with something like lust. “A work of art, my magnum opus. He is _perfect_.”

Perfect.

Perfect is new.

oOo

The Time Masters are shitty people.

He's known this for a long time, but belonging to Rolan drives that knowledge home. Druce doesn't care what Rolan does to him so long as he gets results, and he gets very good results. Rolan likes torture, loves to make him scream, and if he does his job quick and well Rolan will pamper him for a bit before taking the machine to him. Some of the other captains see him around and shift out of his way as he walks down the hall, and he hates that he knows why. When in the Vanishing Point he's allowed plain clothes, but he always has to wear the heavy tags around his neck that mark his identity, collaring him like some purebred hound that Rolan intends to put out to stud. Some of the captains look greedy, interested in the games that Rolan gets to play with him. He hates them with a burning, ferocious passion.

The Pilgrim sneers when she sees him, every time. She needed no breaking, after all. She's the very image of perfection so far as Druce is concerned, and has free rein so long as she does her job. And she does it very, very well.

“Kronos,” she croons as he checks over his gear in the armory. “Back so soon, I see. Rolan's let you off your leash?”

He ignores her, but can't help the flinch when she runs her slender fingers down his arm.

_Len rarely tolerates touch, touches others even less, but this morning he's awake early and wants Mick to make pancakes for Lisa because it's her birthday- “the ones with chocolate in them, I even went and got the stuff for it, come on Mick” and Mick loves him and his stupid, precious, adorable kid sister more than life itself, and he's going to die for him one day._

“Get off,” he grunts.

The Pilgrim tuts, leaning up against the table. “Come on now, pet. Why so touchy? Did Rolan neuter you as well?”

He does not want to think about that. Rolan is an inventive bastard, and castration to make him more compliant would be well within his wheelhouse. Bad enough he doses him with something that's killed any remaining libido. Rolan controls his pleasure. He knows this routine. Rolan's making him dependent to get his fix of any form of kindness.

Worst of all is that it's working.

“Been a while since I was out of armor,” he says instead, putting his helmet back in the locker and tapping it to close. The Pilgrim leans in and grins at him with all her teeth, and he turns slow, cold eyes to her.

“Besides,” he says flatly, “even before, I never fucked people as crazy as you.”

He takes the hit without flinching, uncaring of how she opened red lines cross his cheeks with razorblade nails. At least the pain means that he feels something other than rage. This is bone deep satisfaction, and he smiles at her to watch her flush with anger before walking away. Rolan gave him limited time out of his quarters, and if he's gone much longer Rolan will make him scream until he sleeps. Those nights are the worst.

Those nights, he sleeps like the dead. He doesn't get to dream of destroying the Waverider piece by piece.

oOo

“You're back early,” Rolan Ouranus says absently, sprawled in his armchair. Declan, his favorite apprentice, sits ramrod straight in another, his robes neatly tucked around himself. He ignores the apprentice entirely. Declan, while almost as sadistic as his master, is not currently a threat.

Rolan's appointments are stuffed to the brim with old pieces of history, things not likely to be missed. On the walls hang a number of weapons and torure devices, everything from a scythe to a castrating knife hanging besides tapestries and several broadswords. One wall is devoted to farming equipment, and a beet knife hangs next to one of humanities first attempts at a sickle, ugly and jagged. 

“The Pilgrim wanted to speak to me,” he says, his tone neutral. “Do you require anything?”

Rolan turns a page in his book, brushing his long hair back from his face. He's a pretentious little shit, and adores paper and his creature comforts. He's a long, thin man, with dark eyes and a snub nose, and the sort of face most described as angular. He gave the impression of a slender crane, folded in on itself until preparing to strike. Rolan is tactile, and loves to stroke over the skin of his victim in a false reassurance.

He has felt those fingers too many times.

After a moment, Rolan looks up, dark eyes narrowing at the scratches on his cheek. “What did she do to you?”

“I declined an invitation to fuck,” he says flatly. “She took offense.”

Rolan rises, unfolding from his seat and striding over to gently run his fingers over the wounds. He tries not to flinch at the false tenderness. Rolan tchs softly, turning his face this way and that before running a soft finger along the wound. The tiny mechanics embedded in his skin heal the ache of the bruise, but leave the cuts. Both healer and torturer, Rolan is a man of many depths.

“I should make her suffer for such an offense,” Rolan says, his voice danger soft and his eyes slightly hazed with anger. Rolan's nails twitch lightly over the wounds, and his eyes darken further. “I do not care for even superficial damage to be done, especially not when it means I must look upon it. Such perfection is not to be trifled with, as I have said a great many times.”

“My apologies,” he says, emotionless.

Rolan considers him another moment before shrugging, and strokes his cheek. Blood streaks off on his hand, and he doesn't bother to wipe it off. “No matter. You may rest tonight, I think. I expect there will be work when you wake, if the day goes as expected. Druce said something about a party besieging some town in Italy for a golden mask. Come, I will have you healed and then you are free to sleep.”

He nods, inclines his head to Declan, and leaves the room.

He does not miss how Declan's eyes follow him with a new, more interested hunger.

oOo

Twenty two year old Len, sitting in the yard, a new scar forming on his face.

He watches as Mick Rory walks over, sitting on the bench next to him. He watches the exchange, Len twitching away from touch. Iron Heights is brutal and the winters are enough to suck the soul from anyone. The yard is frigid, November just starting to bare its teeth. Mick Rory pulls off his outer jacket, slinging it over Len. Len curls in on himself, staring down at the grass and leaning over towards him. He glances around. There's the local alpha, sitting there watching the pair with great interest, his little harem of devotees bickering about who gets to sit closest.

Len, far too pretty to be safe. Mick, far too crazy to be safe.

What a lovely pair.

He turns away from the scene, picks up the carcass of the pirate he's been hunting, and hauls him off into the brush. 

Not yet.

oOo

Rolan strokes a hand down his arm as he settles on the table in the training room. It's been recently fixed up, changed so that the décor is a mild blue rather than the offputting white, and the tools on the tray are gleaming surgical steel. He's the last one on Rolan's list for the day, he knows, because Rolan likes playing with him the most and saves the best for last. He's had a few slip ups in the past few month-week-day-years and needs a bit of a tune up, according to Time Master Vauget, and Rolan is only too happy to comply. Time Master Vauget is the head of internal security, and has long been a stick in the mud.

“Druce tells me you've been very good lately, even if Vauget is complaining” Rolan murmurs. “I've been so busy with the others we haven't had a chance to speak. The new children are coming along well. Perhaps I should have you train with them, they could use the exercise. I've a new one that you might be partnered with at some time- we've named her Rhea. Very quick, very pretty, I like her almost as much as you. You would make an excellent pair.” Rolan picks up a syringe, tapping it a few times. 

The liquid inside is a murky silver, and he sighs internally. He hates this part. Needles aren't fun, but Rolan likes history almost as much as Rip Hunter does. The solution is called 'petmoris', a portmanteau of 'petit mortis' after the joke of the French 'little death' and 'rigor mortis'. He looks up at the ceiling as Rolan slides the syringe into his vein.

The petmoris always feels like being doused with icewater, and he winces as it starts to flow through him. It only needs to be administered once in a few years, but Rolan takes no chances. Few of the Time Masters know that they're regularly given it when they go in for their routine exams. It is an extremely effective libido inhibitor- one that Rip Hunter is immune to, which explains a few things.

“Would you like a partner?” Rolan asks, gently stroking his head as he shudders through the icy petmoris. 

“If you'd like me to have one,” he replies, knowing his lines, and Rolan chuckles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“You are so good for me, Kronos,” Rolan says fondly. “So obedient, so loyal, so unwavering. I am so proud of what you've accomplished in just these few short years.”

“I do what I can,” he says, hating how his mood rises with the praise. He tries not to flinch when Rolan hums under his breath and picks up a pair of slender wheels from the tray besides the table. The wheels are one of his favorites, and Rolan must be in a good mood to start off so heavy. The pain will put him under quickly, rather than the slow descent into agony.

Rolan rubs oil on the wheels, smiling all the while. “I do wish you would be more careful,” he says wistfully. “That cape of yours just about caught on fire the other day. And while I know that once you used to enjoy flames...”

The wheels spin, and Rolan smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the sides.

“I think I would prefer you whole.”

He falls into the pain, and falls into the pain, and falls into the place where only the screams exist.

oOo

Two months later, Rolan doesn't give him the petmoris.

He feels the first slow curl of arousal in years while sitting at Rolan's feet while Rolan reads in the living room, and panics. It's a foreign sensation, the desire for someone else's skin, and he leans back into Rolan's leg and turns his head so his cheek sits against the baby fine skin. Rolan reaches down without looking up, cupping his cheek and rubbing his thumb over him. It's as if all his senses have woken back up, freshly tuned to the smell of clean flesh and that faint, familiar musk that's all sex and desire. He doesn't even realize what's happening until Rolan chuckles softly at how he's half on the couch and almost in Rolan's lap.

“The petmoris-” he says, jerking back and standing up, alarmed. 

Rolan waves him off, not looking up from his book. “It's safer to miss a dose once every little while. It'll keep your hormones healthier.” He looks up from his book at last, smiling softly. “Besides, I have a surprise for you.”

He's practically shaking with nerves, alarmed at this sudden change in his body, but Rolan takes his arm and leads him through the hallways to the Hangar Bay. The Warships and the Timeships all sit in their little bays, some of them being worked on by their crews. Rolan stops in front of bay 226, and gestures to the ship inside. It's about the size of a jumpship, compact but spiny with weapons.

“This is my old ship,” Rolan says. “I've had her fixed up and improved. She's yours now.”

A ship.

A whole ship.

He turns, looks to Rolan, who's smiling.

“You're letting me go,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Rolan says, reaching up and gently touching his cheek. “You'll be on your own, officially. Your own man, as it were. You're free from us if you desire. Partner with who you like, chase which bounties you wish. Take the petmoris or don't.” Rolan slides his hand down to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing soothing circles. “Kronos, you are the most magnificent of all those I've trained. As I said once, you are my magnum opus, my most perfect creation.” 

He's being played. He knows it. The lack of the petmoris has him skin hungry, and Rolan is not an ugly man. It's been years.

“Perhaps,” Kronos says, while the back of his mind screams that this is just the conditioning, teaching him that Rolan is the only person who could like him, “you could show me around my new home.”

Rolan's smile is all teeth.

oOo

Kronos feels filthy and showers inside Bloodwake's little bathroom, scrubbing his skin hard. It's a small ship, but very comfortable, and Rolan had shown him every nook and cranny in between some very filthy sex. Kronos feels violated- has been violated.

“Gaia,” he calls, and the AI chirps to life.

“Yes, Kronos?”

“Hotter water.”

The water is practically scalding, stinging even his scarred skin, and he braces his arms on the sides of the shower hoping that the water will somehow make him feel less like a disgusting mess.

Gaia chirps again. “Kronos, there are four new bounties listed.”

“Chart courses for all of them,” he says, straightening up and running his hands over his face. He feels like death. “Let's take the farthest jump back we can.”

“Course charted for Ankor Wat.”

Kronos snorts. “Oh, that'll be fun.” He grabs a towel, ignores the the bruise on his neck where Rolan bit him with teeth like knives, and goes to dress. Maybe he'll take the petmoris after all, if only to keep this from happening again. He doesn't like that his body betrayed him so easily. Rolan knows the human body like the back of his hand, and can play him like a harp. He's dangerous, and now that Kronos is officially cut free from his strings, he'll have to relearn how to behave. 

He has to learn how not to need someone again.

oOo

_Len rolls over in bed, dressed as always in long sleeves and long pants, and burrows up against his chest. Mick wraps an arm around him, letting him butt his head up under his chin and holding him tight._

_“What's wrong?”_

_“Bad dreams,” Len mumbles. “Really bad dreams.”_

_“About the shithead?”_

_Len huffs a sigh that tickles his skin. “About Lewis, yes.”_

_Mick hums, rubbing his arm. Len curls up tighter against him, and Mick stares at the dark ceiling, thinking about how much he hates Lewis Snart. “Tell you what,” he says, “we'll go get that painting you wanted.”_

_“You're too good to me,” Len drawls, and Mick smiles at the ceiling._

_“I am,” he agrees, and plunges the knife in his free hand directly into Len's heart, holding him as he bleeds out. The wet heat of the blood on his chest is more satisfying than even flames, and he listens to Len's last gurgling breath with a happy sigh._

oOo

Gaia's comm link in his ear wakes him up late in the morning in 1257 Norway, where he's in bed with a monk.

The monk is named Sigurd, and he's going to kill his younger brother without anyone in history knowing. Kronos watches him as he shifts in his sleep, and smiles when Sigurd opens his eyes.

“You slept late,” he says, and Sigurd's smile broadens as he pulls him down for a lazy kiss. Sigurd is not a very traditional monk- by which Kronos means he keeps an altar dedicated to Odin and Tyr hidden behind a tapestry, and also likes fucking anyone who's interested. He's also built like a brick house, sturdy and solid, and Kronos is happy to admit he likes that.

“I'm surprised you're still here,” Sigurd says in between the lazy kisses that have Kronos feverishly grateful the petmoris is fully out of his system so he can enjoy them. “Today will be a busy day. The culmination of my efforts. I thought you would leave.”

“Mmm, no,” Kronos murmurs, grabbing his waist and pulling him in closer. “Couldn't leave without giving in to a little more temptation.”

Sigurd laughs breathlessly against his lips, and Kronos lets himself be pulled up to straddle his hips. “It is morning Mass right now.”

“Then I will praise the Lord in all the ways I know how,” Kronos drawls, and Mick Rory's Irish Catholic mother rolls over in her grave far in the future.

Later, when Kronos has dressed like the very wealthy merchant he's pretending to be, Sigurd kills his brother by bringing him poisoned water as the Spanish physician attends to him. King Haakon the Young dies, effectively installing Haakon's full brother and Sigurd's half brother Magnus on the throne. Sigurd casually disposes of the water jug, changes into the fine robes of a courtier, and rides out the gates without anyone so much as glancing at him. Kronos waits, watches him go, and waits a little while longer.

They meet up again on a grassy hill outside the city, and Kronos lies with him and stares up at the clouds.

“Where will you go?” Sigurd asks, rolling over to look at him. He's an exceptional beauty, even with his hair shorn all off.

“The future,” Kronos tells him. 

Sigurd smiles, and kisses him with enough heat that Kronos rolls him on his back, pinning him down. Sigurd grins up at him, all wickedness. “The future can wait,” he promises. “Once more, just to remember me by?”

“I don't know if anyone could ever forget you,” Kronos tells him, and lets himself be pulled down for a kiss before he slides a knife between Sigurd's ribs. Sigurd chokes, and Kronos pulls back, watching him gurgle his last. Sigurd's eyes fix on him, shocked and pained, and Kronos pulls his knife free. It glitters wetly with blood.

“Nice try,” he whispers as the illusion dissolves and a man in the uniform of a time pirate appears. The real Sigurd steps out from behind the trees, looking at him with wide eyes. Kronos rises, wiping off the blood from his knife. 

“How did you know?”

Kronos grins at him. “You're right handed. He held the reins with his left.” He strides over, and Sigurd slides his hands up his chest to kiss him. Kronos pulls back with a grin. “Besides, no one kisses like you do.”

Sigurd snorts, lifting his hand do kiss the back. “Flatterer. Go in safety, elskede. I'll think of you often at night.”

“Now who's the flatterer?” Kronos murmurs, and pulls him in for one last, slow kiss.

oOo

The carcass fetches a tidy sum, and Kronos finds himself walking familiar halls despite not wanting to. He knocks on Rolan's door before he knows what he's doing, and Rolan opens it with a smile.

“I thought you'd come back soon,” he says sweetly. “You look well, Kronos.”

Kronos lets himself be pulled in. The door closes. 

The knives are as sharp as he remembers, and Rolan's praise and endearments even sweeter. He strains against the restraints, desperate for that praise, and when he's too bloody to do more than twitch, Rolan lovingly cleans him up and holds him, whispering praise all the while. Kronos hates himself more than every before, and clings to Rolan as if he's all that keeps him breathing. 

Rolan takes him to bed.

Kronos doesn't cry when he showers later, but it's a near thing.

Gaia waits until he's curled up in his bed aboard Gaia, tightly wrapped in soft blankets, to pipe up. 

“Kronos, there's something you should know.”

He sighs. “What, Gaia?”

The AI sounds embarrassed, and a little scared. “There is a former Time Master who is now a bounty hunter. Her name is Rhea. She wishes to speak with you about a partnership.”

A partnership.

_Len, feet up on the couch, going endlessly over plans._

“I'll talk to her in the morning, Gaia,” Kronos says, and closes his eyes.

Instead of the Waverider's dead decorating his bow, he dreams an infinite loop of Sigurd, Sara, Len, Declan, and Rolan whispering, “ _Perfect, perfect, perfect,_ ” in his ear.

oOo

“I'm pregnant,” Rhea tells him fifty years later, in a bar in 1652, London. It's loud and crowded, and Rhea looks like she might be ill just thinking about it. “He sabotaged my body, and you know what fuckers the Time Masters are about children and choice.”

Kronos does. “I thought you had yourself sterilized, like I did.”

Rhea's dark eyes go darker. “I did.”

Kronos goes cold. Rhea looks at him somberly, fear hiding in her eyes. He feels sick, feels hands all over, knows every moment of hatred and rage mutate and roar back to life. Rhea touches her stomach, and his eyes are helplessly drawn there. “We'll have to hide you from him. He'll want it.”

“I know,” she whispers. She's the same height as he is, built solid as a house, muscles just as thick as his. She's Greek originally, and he realizes what he has to do.

“Better to go now.”

“Let's go, then,” she says, and they go, disappearing back into the night and onto the Bloodwake. They've been on again, off again partners for eight years, and Kronos may not care for the term “partner”, but they mesh well. He doesn't desire Rhea's death, and that's good enough. 

Back on the ship late at night, Gaia tells him, “He's going to come after her.”

Gaia is a good AI. She's older, but sturdy. She reminds him of Gideon, in a way, but she's much quieter, sweeter even. She cares for him, in her AI way, always coming up with new recipes for him and playing scenes of flames and carnage when he's stressed. She rarely ventures her own opinions, and so Kronos stops his shaving and listens.

“He has done this before,” Gaia says, and she sounds almost scared. “My former captain has had many children. He is obsessed with creation.”

Kronos puts down his razor, carefully. “How many children?”

“85.”

Kronos braces his arms on the sink, staring into it and trying not to be sick. “Were they wanted children?”

“Not all,” Gaia says, and Kronos sees red. “Some of the women and individuals that he impregnated did desire children by him, but many did not. Those children he took, and scattered through history where he could watch them, and they would never be seen by the Time Masters. Captain Rhea's child is not by him, but as one of those he trained he will consider the child belonging to him. I cannot doubt that he specifically wished children by her and decided to turn her body against her.”

“And the child...”

“Is not yours, Kronos,” she says. He sits down outright, relief turning his legs to jelly. Had his body been sabotaged as well, he may have lost his mind all over again. “The child's second parent is a metahuman, but I am unable to determine which.”

There is a pause, and then Gaia says, in a flat voice he's never heard before, “I would ask a favor, Kronos.”

“What is it?” Kronos asks.

“Kill my former Captain.”

Kronos stares at the ship wall and smiles a little.

“That I can do.”

oOo

The Time Pirate attack on the Vanishing Point is perfectly timed.

Kronos steps silently inside Rolan's living room, and looks to the walls. The swords all gleam, tempting. The knives are familiar. The gun at his side is a familiar friend. But his eyes light on the sickle, and he takes it from its hooks with a gentle hand. The wooden grip seems like it was made for him, and he holds it as he slips down the hallway to where he can hear Rolan fussing with something in his bedroom. 

He steps inside, sickle held loosely.

Rolan turns, brushing long hair back behind his ear. He has a man on the bed, a time pirate that's supposed to be in a cell. The man is not alive.

“Kronos, why are you here?” Rolan asks, his voice soft and tender, as if there isn't a corpse staring at the ceiling upon his bed. “Why aren't you out at the fighting?”

Kronos spins the sickle in his hands. “Rhea.”

Rolan frowns. “What?”

Kronos takes a slow step forward, eyes fixed on him. “Bet it gives you a thrill. Knowing you create and destroy life with a thought. 85 children. Gaia told me every one of their names. Told me about each and every one that you stole, that you hid. The ones you killed when you checked their genetics and decided they weren't good enough. And now Rhea's pregnant because you _lied_. You didn't sterilize her like you swore you would.”

Rolan smiles, all gentle love. “I knew you would make an excellent pair. Is the child by you? I'd hoped for a few from the pair of you, you both have such _perfect_ genetics.”

The word perfect makes his arm waver, training sticking, reminding him that this is the one who loves him.

_Len, awash with pain, lunging towards him._

He deserves revenge.

He lifts the sickle. “You're sick.”

“Nonsense,” Rolan says, offended. “I'm simply making sure life carries on.”

“Rapist,” Kronos and Mick Rory say together, and attack.

Rolan is fast, but Kronos is faster. Rolan is whip smart, but Mick Rory has had years upon years of built up rage and careful watching to build on, and they pin Rolan to a wall with ease.

Kronos looks him dead in the eyes, arm pressed against his throat as the sickle slides between Rolan's legs.

“So tell me,” Mick Rory says, teeth bared, “was it good for you too?”

oOo

Declan and Druce find him methodically trashing Rolan's apartment. They help, and Druce helps him wash off the blood from his armor. Declan puts on the robe of the training master.

Kronos is holding the sickle in his hands, freshly cleaned, when Druce steps in front of him.

“There's officially a bounty on the Waverider,” he says. Kronos looks up, and smiles.

“I'll see myself out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Despite my destroying his good name, so far as I know, Haakon the Young's older and illegitimate brother Sigurd was A) not a monk and B) did not murder him to put their younger brother on the throne. Please forgive my very bad use of Norwegian.


End file.
